The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  But that was long past. Lulled by the warmth of the fire and the tasty stew they were served, she sat quietly, almost dozing, until Thorkill rose and went to a chest against the far wall. Opening it, he lifted out an object wrapped in oilskin and returned with it to his seat.

  ‘This is what you seek, Rorik.’

  Alert again, Yvaine drew closer as Rorik took the object and parted the skin wrappings.

  ‘Why, ’tis only an old stone,’ she exclaimed, surprised and little disappointed.

  ‘A rune stone, love,’ Rorik corrected, turning the stone over in his hands. It was small, only about a foot long and rounded at one end. Both sides were covered with strange symbols that Yvaine knew represented some sort of written word—unusual among the Norse. With vellum so rare and valuable, their stories were more often passed down by word of mouth. Only the laws, and the occasional grave marker, were carved in stone.

  ‘Can you read it?’ she asked.

  Rorik glanced from her to Thorkill, turned the stone over again and began to read. ‘“Read these runes. Egil, son of Eirik, son of Rorik, son of Einer, lay with a slave, Alicia, who bore him a son. Afterwards she died. The son Rorik lived and was duly adopted by law to be equal with any other children of his father. And being the only son and older than those who may come after, he must take his father’s house, allotting shares to his brothers should any be born. The law-speaker Gudrik carved these runes.”’

  There was a long silence when Rorik finished reading. He laid the stone on the bench and stared thoughtfully into the fire.

  ‘This is what Egil told Ingerd,’ Yvaine said at last, working it out. ‘What Gunhild stopped her from telling us yesterday. That man…’

  ‘Aye.’ Rorik briefly covered her hand with his. ‘He killed Ingerd.’

  ‘A defenceless old woman,’ she said angrily. ‘I’m glad you kicked him over the cliff.’

  Thorkill laughed. ‘Spoken like a true Norsewoman. But your wife is English, Rorik, like your mother!’

  ‘Does that matter?’ Yvaine turned to him. ‘Surely the rune stone proves that Rorik is his father’s heir, whatever his mother’s blood. Oh, Rorik, don’t you see? There’s no need for you to leave Einervik now.’

  He gave her a quick glance, but was distracted by Thorkill.

  ‘You were leaving, Rorik?’

  ‘Othar banished me. Not that I took any notice of that. I was planning to leave anyway.’

  ‘That whelp!’ Thorkhill snorted. ‘I might have known he’d cause trouble, or rather, that his mother would. Not that Egil ever expected it. He hadn’t even met Gunhild when that stone was carved, but he wanted everything done to protect you, Rorik. After all, the son of a concubine is one thing. He has rights. The son of a slave becomes a slave also, regardless of who sires him. Egil wanted you recognised as his legal heir. He even held the full adoption ceremony. I was one of the witnesses.’

  ‘I knew nothing of this,’ Rorik said.

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t recall it, of course. It must be twenty-five years ago. I think you were about three. Egil slaughtered an ox and made a boot from the hide of the beast’s right leg. Then we all set our right foot in it, one after the other, including you.’

  ‘It must have caused some stir, surely,’ Yvaine said. ‘A ceremony so elaborate.’

  ‘Egil kept it quiet. As far as everyone knew, when Egil took Rorik to Einervik, he was the son of a woman he’d met on his travels, married, and left her with her people because he wasn’t ready to settle. He took Alicia away after she quickened. To some distant farm where you were looked after, Rorik, until you were old enough to take part in the adoption ceremony.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to have simply married my mother?’ Rorik asked drily. ‘Especially if Egil cared about her as he claimed.’

  Thorkill pursed his lips. ‘That I can’t say. She was English and a slave, and he was always proud, always aware of his position. But then you were born. His son. I think it took him by surprise, the feeling he had for you. He certainly settled down then, never went on another raid.’

  ‘A little too late for my mother.’

  ‘Aye, but you have to remember that when all this happened we were at war with the English. Runes! We’ve always been land-poor in Norway and there was England, divided into warring kingdoms, just waiting to be taken.

  ‘And, by Odin’s beard, we did it!’ he added, waving his drinking-horn in a toast to those long-ago days. ‘The very year you were born, Rorik, there was a Norwegian ruling the north from Jorvik. York, t’was once called. Only Alfred of Wessex held against us. A great warrior. A great king. And you needn’t remind me of Sitric.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ Rorik murmured. ‘Would I be so uncivil to my host?’

  ‘I think ’tis the thought of my old bones that restrains you.’ Thorkill chuckled. ‘And they grow weary.’ He rose, stretching. ‘I sleep outside during the summer months,’ he announced, his eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘’Tis good for the blood. So you’ll be quite private here.’

  Before either of his guests could reply, he scooped up a fur from the bench, gave them a grin, and departed.

  ‘He thinks frozen blood is good?’ muttered Yvaine, suddenly wide-awake at this abrupt end to the evening. She hadn’t expected to be alone with Rorik; wasn’t sure what to do. The opportunity to renew the physical bond between them was here, but in the face of his reaction to her touch last night…

  ‘Would you rather have the hut to yourself?’ he asked quietly, getting to his feet.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, and, gathering all her resolution, looked up. ‘I want to be with you.’

  She wondered if he would understand her deeper meaning; could read nothing in his eyes. He nodded and crossed to the door.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve one or two questions still to ask of Thorkill.’

  Well, at least he hadn’t refused to sleep in the same room with her, Yvaine encouraged herself as he shut the door.

  She rose, tossed some furs on to the floor for a bed, and started to unfasten her brooches. She wasn’t sure what she would do. Frolicking in a tub when she was already naked and lying in Rorik’s arms was one thing; her heart threatened to lodge in her throat at the thought of tempting him by sitting naked by the fire—although, unbound, her hair would cover her to her hips. Only one thing kept her resolve alive. An endearment she wasn’t even sure he’d been aware of uttering. A rune stone, love.

  That sweet single word was enough. Enough to hope he might change his mind about taking her to England. Enough to dare to reach out, to find out if he still wanted her. She would think only of that.

  Rorik closed the door quietly behind him, looked up and went utterly still. Even his heart stopped. He had no need of it, nor for the breath that caught in his throat. She was life to him. She was everything.

  She sat by the fire, combing her hair, her bare legs curled to the side. The honey-gold mass fell over her shoulders like a silken cloak, parting slightly with the movement of her arm to show tantalising glimpses of the curve of her hip or the graceful sweep of her back.

  She glanced up at the closing of the door, her lovely eyes wide, enigmatic, but behind the shadows he thought he saw a shy, fugitive longing.

  It was almost like the first time he’d seen her, he thought. Except that this time she wasn’t hurt. And this time he wasn’t going to reach out and take.

  But what if she wanted to give? If only he could read the mysteries in her eyes. Her pose was temptation incarnate, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his own need that had him seeing an invitation where there was none. Yet she’d removed every stitch of clothing.

  He realised, without surprise, that a fine tremor vibrated through his limbs. How could he walk out of here and not try to bind her to him with every tie he could think of? Not try to imprint himself on her, mind, body, soul, so she could never forget him?

  He came forward slowly, as though any sudden movement might startle h
er. He went down on one knee, reached out a hand to cradle her face. Just like that first time, he thought again. But though her eyes held a hint of uncertainty, there was no fear, and this time, when he parted her hair to reveal the soft curves of her body, he knew he would be lost forever. Knew and cared not.

  She shivered a little as he looked at her, the movement sending firelight flickering over her skin, warming her, creating a rosy flush. No, not just the fire’s heat, he thought, as he watched her nipples tighten. The way he was watching her was doing that. Her body knew him, wanted him.

  Gods, she was beautiful. He could have gone on looking at her, just looking, for hours, even while the yearning in his soul, the throbbing in his loins, made him ache beyond bearing.

  ‘’Tis not just…kindness?’

  The whisper reached him, drawing his gaze upward.

  ‘Kindness?’ he echoed. Suddenly the hesitation in her eyes was unbearable. His hands went to her waist. He stood, pulling her up with him and into his arms. His mouth was on hers before the answer reached his lips.

  ‘Does this feel like kindness?’ he demanded between kisses. ‘Does this—’ he let her feel his teeth against her throat ‘—or this—’ he arched her over his arm, clamped his mouth over her nipple.

  Yvaine cried out, ceasing to think, ceasing to hear or see. She could only feel. Feel the violent pounding of his heart, the hard strength of his arms, the almost brutal demand of his mouth. She clung to him, wanting to get closer, to ease the throbbing between her legs that was growing hotter and wilder with every strong movement of his lips at her breast.

  With an almost agonised groan, he released her and started stripping off his clothes, heedless of ripped seams and dangling laces. Yvaine swayed, she couldn’t stand, her legs felt like water. She trembled uncontrollably at the fierce intent in his eyes, would have dropped to the floor had he not hurled the last of his clothing away and bent to her. With a powerful movement that wrenched a wild cry of excitement from her, he lifted her against him and lowered them both to the fur bedding.

  ‘If this is kindness,’ he growled against her mouth, ‘’tis for myself.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she gasped, clinging to him. ‘Rorik. It doesn’t matter.’

  But he drew back, his hands gripping her face, forcing her to look at him. His thighs held hers wide apart; she could feel the hot, powerful length of him pressed against her, but he held still, the strain of control making him shudder with every breath. ‘It does matter. Yvaine, I wasn’t going to take you again until you could choose.’

  She heard the words, understood them, but dimly. It didn’t matter. He could have said nought and she would still be his. ‘I have chosen,’ she murmured, and arched beneath him in frantic feminine demand.

  He almost heard the explosion as his control cracked. She was quivering beneath him, soft, open, wanting. Forgetting everything but the blind need to possess her, to be inside her, part of her, he joined their bodies with a powerful thrust that had her screaming under the sudden lash of ecstasy.

  He closed his mouth over hers, knowing with one last vestige of sanity that she’d be embarrassed later if she thought Thorkill had heard. Then the sweet hot pulsing of her body around him was too much. A harsh groan tore from his throat. Holding her as if the world itself had vanished around them, he unleashed the full force of his need, until she cried out again and again, lost in total surrender; until the hot spurting of his seed inside her joined them for all time, creating new life.

  If he was very, very lucky, Rorik amended, when his heartbeat returned to something like normal and he could think.

  Yvaine lay beneath him, so still, so utterly limp, she seemed scarcely to breathe. He lifted his head sharply, remembering the unrestrained power with which he’d taken her. She was still new to love-making, and so delicate, so soft. Wondering at the slenderness of a body that could cling to him with such passion, he raised himself on one arm, splaying his fingers across her belly, pressing gently.

  She could be with child. He was torn between the violently primitive need to make it so, and the yearning to have her come to him freely.

  Her lashes fluttered open. She looked up at him, and smiled. Just as she had that first time. And again, he had to break the connection, to let his head fall forward until his brow rested on hers. That smile of shy feminine knowledge was going to strike straight at his heart every time he saw it.

  Not only at his heart, he realised wryly, as renewed tension invaded his muscles.

  He lifted his head, watched her eyes widen as she felt him quicken inside her. Her inner muscles quivered delicately around him, making him groan with the exquisite pleasure of it. The need for completion hammered at him, but not this time…not this time…

  ‘Did you think once would be enough?’ he murmured against her lips. He began to move again, a gentle, rocking motion designed to draw this out until they were both sated, both senseless with pleasure. She gasped and trembled beneath him. ‘A hundred times,’ he whispered. ‘A thousand. ’Twill never be enough.’

  No, never, she thought as a tide of voluptuous weakness washed over her, ecstasy building, flowing, gently tumbling her over a crest before building again.

  She’d wanted to talk to him. To ease her uncertainty about what he intended to do now that he knew the truth of his birth. But it didn’t matter; there was time enough for that. She couldn’t think of anything but the heat of his body, the coiled power of the muscles beneath her hands, the sweetness of his kisses after the whirlwind that had gone before.

  England, his family, everything could wait.

  Chapter Thirteen

  But Gunhild and Othar hadn’t waited.

  ‘Gone? What do you mean they’ve gone?’ Rorik stared narrow-eyed at Thorolf over the remains of their supper. He and Yvaine had reached Einervik that afternoon. In the presence of the free karls and slaves of the estate, he’d produced the rune stone and related Thorkill’s account of the adoption ceremony.

  There had been much talk and wonderment over the supper table, but now, taking advantage of the long summer evening, the slaves had drifted away to their own affairs, and Yvaine had retired to their bedchamber. It was time to deal with his stepmother and brother.

  ‘Othar said he was taking Gunhild to stay with a friend, and he wanted us gone by the time he got back,’ Thorolf reported.

  Rorik frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. By morning, everyone up and down the fjord will know of the rune stone. Why assume we’re still leaving?’

  ‘Well, I’m preparing for a voyage regardless.’ Thorolf shrugged. ‘Perhaps they’re hoping you’re still taking Yvaine to England, and that their version of Egil’s story will be forgotten by the time you get back.’

  ‘Hmm. Staying with a friend? The woman doesn’t have any friends.’

  ‘Then perhaps he’s taken her to Kaupang. Who knows? The point is, Rorik, they have reason to lie low until we’ve gone. I think Ingerd might have been dead before she went into the water. There was a tear in the back of her shift. It was too small to be caused by a dagger so I can’t be sure, but when Anna and I hunted around we found some blood in a clearing above the fjord. If the killer lured Ingerd there and stabbed her, say with a cloak pin, then rolled her body into the water, from a distance ’twould look as though she’d slipped and tumbled down the slope. Of course, nobody can remember seeing anything. Bunch of fools.’

  ‘The murderer seems to have had a fondness for sharp weapons,’ Rorik murmured. ‘Although he tried something a little larger on us.’

  ‘What!’ Thorolf sat bolt upright. ‘Are you saying…?’

  ‘Aye.’ Rorik tipped his drinking-horn at his friend. ‘Gunhild does indeed have reason to lie low. Her intent was to silence Thorkill before he could speak, or to kill us all if Yvaine and I got there first.’

  ‘Gods! Did they think I’d stay silent if you all ended up dead?’

  ‘Probably not, but with the three of us gone and the rune stone destroy
ed, you’d have no proof that Gunhild had a motive for murder, let alone had one committed. I’d confirmed Othar as Jarl, openly before witnesses. In fact—’ he leaned back in his chair, gazing into the fire ‘—as a plan it wasn’t badly thought out. If you went looking for evidence that Othar had usurped my position, then silenced those of us who knew about the stone, I warrant all you’d find would be the remains of a tragic fire in Thorkill’s shieling. As for Ingerd, could you swear the blood you found and the tear in her clothing wasn’t caused by her striking something sharp when she fell?’

  ‘No, but…Hel, Rorik, what in the three worlds made them think you’d be easy to kill? ’Tis like Othar to act first, then panic at the thought that you might survive, but I would’ve thought Gunhild had more sense.’

  ‘I’d rather know why she isn’t here to brazen it out. We either wouldn’t have returned, thereby making her safe, or we’d return with a tale that merely removed Othar from his chair. All she had to do was claim that Ingerd didn’t tell her the whole story.’

  ‘And your would-be murderer?’

  ‘Deny all knowledge; suggest we were set upon by an outlaw. Although in this case, one who talked before he died. That possibility might be keeping her in hiding until we’ve sailed.’

  ‘I should think it would. By the Runes, Rorik, you could have them outlawed and banished from Norway for this.’

  ‘Very likely. But I’ve got no time and less inclination to chase after my ambitious relatives. Let them creep back when they hear we’ve gone. How soon can we get a crew together?’